


Let Me Be There

by yikesdotcom (thefineprint)



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Methamphetamine Addiction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution, Slow Build, There Will Be A Happy Ending Though, a Hot Mess, after high school, au where creek never dated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-01-04 00:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12157812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefineprint/pseuds/yikesdotcom
Summary: After graduation, Tweek disappeared with only a goodbye text and an unfulfilled promise to let Craig know when he made it down to Denver. There isn't much to be done for a legal adult who had good reason to want to take off and start fresh, so Craig is left to move on and try to ignore his worry.Craig himself is living in a cheap hotel room in Denver for the summer -- near an area in which desperate, emaciated addicts are known to do a variety of shady business to fund their addiction, from dealing to whoring. Among those in the small-time back-alley pleasure trade is a particular pretty blonde boy who has lost all his connections and has no means to escape his downward spiral.In this one instance, fate is merciful enough to let their paths cross.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Angst? In MY fic writing database? It's more likely than you think

 You know, you really do get what you pay for. And I'm only paying, like, $40 a night for this.

 

The motel lobby I walk into is mostly linoleum and smells strongly of the AirWick scent diffuser plugged into the far wall, and the concierge is a disinterested-looking dude in his thirties wearing a t-shirt with a Michael Scott quote on it. He looks up at the sound of the jingle bells (literally Christmas decoration jingle bells) on the front door as I swing it open and approach him.

 

"Yeah, hi. I'll be under Craig Tucker. I've got a room booked indefinitely." The strap of my bag is digging into the pressure point at the juncture of my shoulder and my calf is cramping and I just want to get to my room, come on man.

 

The concierge -- can you even call him that? This is a pretty shitty motel, I don't think any of the job titles should be in French -- nods and slides a room key across the counter. “If you have any questions, feel free to call the front desk. Enjoy your stay.” 

 

Muttering some semblance of thanks, I tug my suitcase toward the elevator. The door opens as quickly as I press the button, and I breathe a silent hallelujah at the emptiness of the compartment. I’ve been driving for hours and I am in no mood to exchange insincere pleasantries with some overly polite businessman, or worse, shove my way through a crowd of obnoxious children in a road-tripping family.

 

I step off the elevator on floor 4, find my room, swipe the card, and push open the door to survey the room that’s gonna serve as my crash pad for the majority of the summer. It’s decently spacious, if a little ugly, with a couch, TV, and kitchenette, and a separate master bedroom and tiny bathroom. Pretty good for a place this cheap.

 

Graduation was only like 2 months ago, but since I’d been itching to get out of South Park for years at that point I made the decision to come down to Denver early and live by myself for the summer before starting school at CU Denver. Rent is through the fucking roof in this city, and I'd have to really stretch to make my savings last through payments for an apartment, plus no one wants to accept a tenant for only two months when there's so much competition, so until school starts and I can move on campus I'm staying in one of those cheap motels that lets you stay without a hard limit. My parents are actually helping with the payments a little bit so that I'll have some money left by the end of the summer. In all honesty, I think they’re almost as relieved as I am for me to be out of the house.

 

Not bothering to unpack my stuff, I make a beeline for the bedroom. Flopping down on the queen size bed, I kick off my shoes and toss my chullo on the bedside table. Finally.

 

I’ve been sitting in my car for hours with my foot on the pedal. I close my eyes just in time for my phone to vibrate in my pocket. Glancing at the lock screen, I can see I’ve got like 5 texts from Clyde. I had my phone on silent for the trip for this exact reason.

 

**9:02 AM**

 

**Clyde Donovan:** _yo r u in denver yet??? ur mom says hi._

 

**11:23 AM**

 

**Clyde Donovan:** _I hope ur still on the road because we are clearly not going to be there by noon_

 

**12:11 PM**

 

**Clyde Donovan:** _omfg Token is trying to find a second suitcase bc he filled his first one. he’s packing so much bullshit he won’t listen to me_

 

**12:47 PM**

 

**Clyde Donovan:** _“should I take more than one dress shirt? am I going to need a fucking portable fan?” save me from this hell_

 

**3:32 PM**

 

**Clyde Donovan:** _ok so update: Token took like 3 million years to pack so we’re going to start driving out @ like 5. the good news tho is that the hotel is cool with keeping our room for us so we’re still ur amazingly charming and good looking neighbors_

 

 

I roll my eyes and leave him on read so knows I got his message but also understands that I think they're both idiots. He’ll get the message (or lack thereof, I guess). We’ve been friends since kindergarten and he knows how I communicate.

 

Clyde and Token had the genius idea to follow me on my first venture into independence. In fact, they booked the two rooms across from mine. To be completely frank, I’d acted all scoffy about it when they told me, but we all knew I was actually pretty glad they’d be with me. Clyde’s coming to school with me anyway. Token’s going to the University of Denver, but he’ll be so close that we’re going to be able to meet up all the time anyway. They’re the only members of the crew sticking by me, though. Jimmy’s going to NYU, and he flew out early for some comedy workshop or something. Tweek seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth after graduation. He texted me the day after the ceremony that he was catching a bus to Denver to get away from his parents, and that he'd call me soon and let me know what his situation was, and then I never heard from him again. Nobody did, not even his parents. Not that they could be trusted to have the guy’s best interests at heart. I tried calling him a couple times but it didn't go through, and then one day it was picked up by some guy saying I had the wrong number. 

 

I actually called it in to the police in Denver, but they told me there wasn't a lot for them to do since he was 18, and that besides, he probably just forgot to call me back or wanted to start a new life. I mean, knowing him, I kinda doubt that, but there's nothing I can do, and there's always a chance they're right. I try not to worry about him. I do anyway.

 

I plug in my phone and turn onto my side, closing my eyes to try for a power nap.

 

—

 

_Just push through it, Tweek. You need the money_. 

 

Kneeling in a filthy alley, I’m trying not to gag on the nasty dick that’s fucking my face. My fingers are curled on my knees as I try to weather the storm, reflex tears leaking out of my eyes. Finally, the guy comes with a grunt, thrusting into my mouth a few last times before pulling out and allowing me to spit the nasty spunk into the gutter by my feet.

 

I lean back and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. The man tugs his fly closed and tosses a twenty and a ten on the ground by my knees. “Nice head, kid.” The man slinks away, leaving me to gather my dirty earnings. 

 

With this last pay, I have enough cash for another gram of crystal. I drag myself up off the ground and scurry off to the corner my preferred dealer can generally be relied upon to occupy. 

 

I had been able to pretend to hold it together long enough to graduate. Practically as soon as the ceremony ended, though, I’d grabbed a bus to Denver to get clean, get high, get a job, I didn’t know. I just needed to escape South Park, escape the parents that had been feeding me meth-spiked coffee since kindergarten in the hopes that by the time they revealed their little secret ingredient to me I’d be so desperately hooked I couldn’t leave them and the family business. Fuck that though. No amount of meth could make me stay with them in that godforsaken shop. 

 

No, it isn’t them I’m stuck with. It’s the meth I can’t ditch. 

 

That had been 2 months ago. Now I sleep in a doorway on 16th Street Mall and spend my days buying meth, getting high on meth, and sucking cock to get money for more meth. Take that, Mom and Dad.

 

Actually, this last part of my behavioral pattern had only developed two weeks ago. Before that, I’d used the money I had in my wallet to buy my first fix, and then by the time I was running low I’d been too tweaked out to get a job. I’d briefly tried panhandling, but it wasn’t especially profitable. Lots of competition and not a lot of contributors. I tried to keep it together by myself, then gave up and went to a shelter. That lasted a week, then my withdrawal got to be too much and I left. I didn't foresee myself getting sober enough for a steady paying job, so eventually I’d simply found a new way to fund my addiction.

 

I’m actually pretty successful, as much as you can be in this business when you’re only willing to offer up your mouth. I’m young and pretty, and that gets me customers. No one gives a damn about my twitching as long as my lips are around their dick. I usually get a few guys offering to pay me a nice wad of cash if I’ll let them fuck me, but I always turn it down. I’m not that desperate. Yet.

 

I scuttle up to my guy on Colfax. “You got a gram?” I hiss, flashing the dealer a couple bills. The man grins. “For you, Tweek? Always!” He passes me a baggie, taking my money and nodding his goodbye as I hurry away to ingest my winnings. 

 

I settle underneath a tattered awning in an alleyway. Pulling out a syringe and a bottle of water, I slide my hand into the bag and sigh at the promise of imminent chemical relief.


	2. Chapter 2

I’m jolted out of peaceful slumber by incessant banging on my door. I check the clock. It’s 8 AM. Ew.

 

That means that Clyde and Token arrived last night, and I’m willing to bet my college tuition that that’s them trying to break down my door. I roll out of my warm, lovely bed to go open the door for my idiot friends.

 

“It’s Craig! You _are_ alive!” Clyde's grinning like he just kicked Eric Cartman in the nuts. I roll my eyes. “Hey, shitheads.”

 

I step aside and they follow me into my room. Token looks around. "Jesus Christ, dude, did you even bring anything?" 

 

Clyde spins around to face him with a heated expression on his face. "No, fuckface, that's the amount of shit you're _supposed_ to bring. You're the only moron who packed THREE suitcases full of bullshit." Token looks mildly affronted. "Just because you two only like to bring, like, toothpaste and a single shoe--"

 

“Token, literally not even Kyle Broflovski would ever bring three suitcases on a trip to Denver," I cut in. Clyde high fives me while Token splutters in indignation.

 

We plop ourselves down on my couch. “So, dickhole, have you got anything to drink?” Token inquires. 

 

“Of course not. I was raised in a good Christian household that did not condone underage drinking. I am 18 years old, and I cannot legally consume liquor,” I respond, getting up to grab beers from the mini fridge. I toss them each a can.

 

Token examines the label. “Ah, Coors! A Colorado classic, straight from the breweries of beautiful Golden!”

 

I snort as I return to my place. “Beautiful? What, pray tell, is beautiful about the cement hell that is Golden, Colorado?”

 

“The giant inflatable beer, obviously. It’s a photographer’s paradise,” Clyde grins as he pops the tab on his can.

 

We shoot the shit for a few hours and then order room service because we’re too lazy to leave the room to get reasonably priced and actually decent food. 

 

“This is a really mediocre burger for $18,” Clyde comments as he takes a giant bite of his lunch. “So what’s the plan for this week? Do we want to do anything?”

 

I take a bite of my BLT (also nowhere near worth its exuberant pricing) and let them field this one.

 

“My vote is for chilling out this week. Let’s do whatever the fuck we want. Planning ahead is for losers. We can decide on a day by day basis what we want to do and whether we actually want to do anything,” Token contributes. I nod my agreement. I could use a few Netflix marathons. I'll find a job next week.

 

We hang out in my room for the rest of the day and well into the night. Once we exhaust conversation, we play Cards Against Humanity, which Token brought, and then watch a really shitty horror movie on Netflix, laughing until tears stream down our faces at the outrageously stupid plot and sloppy effects. At midnight, we decide to turn in early (fuck you, midnight is plenty early when you don’t have any commitments the next day) and they go back across the hall to their rooms. 

 

I’m not tired, so I log back into Netflix and find a new documentary on Saturn that I haven’t seen yet. It’s 3 AM by the time I turn off the TV, throw on pajamas, and climb into bed.

 

—

 

I’m clutching at my chest, gasping for air. My heart has never beaten this fast in all my life, and by God that’s saying something. I’ve collapsed against the wall of some building, trying to figure out how to get my heart and lungs to stop convulsing, wondering if I’m going to die right here on this corner at 2 AM. My head is spinning and I vomit next to a parking meter. Oh God, I’m going to die. This is how I go out. 

 

The guy warned me the stuff was from a new supplier, but I was so desperate for a fix that I injected a full third of a gram. I wasn’t careful. I didn’t think. And now I’m going to die. My knees buckle and I hit the ground. I lie there, shaking and jolting on the ground. And then, suddenly, miraculously, I can feel my body restabilizing.

 

A few minutes go by before I feel comfortable trying to stand. I wobble to my feet and grab at the wall. My heart is still pounding too fast, but it’s a speed I’ve dealt with before. I’m alive.

 

As I stagger through the streets I lose track of where I’m going, getting lost in my own thoughts and my own efforts to keep myself stable and upright. When I come back into full awareness, I’m standing at the mouth of an alley I usually frequent. A lot of shady guys will drop by here periodically in the hopes that someone like me will have shown up to offer services. 

 

I don’t know why I directed myself here, but my drug-addled muscle memory has a point: it never hurts to get a head start on saving enough money for the next bag. So when a heavyset man with a handlebar mustache and a permanent crease between his eyebrows asks me what I charge, I let the guy pull me into the alley.

 

It’s kind of funny, I think to myself. Usually I have to make subtle advances and give off hints to make it clear that I’m open for business. But tonight I’m so clearly tweaking out, and what the hell else would a young man high out of his mind come here at this time of night for? I didn’t need to give off hints tonight. I’m not slick at all, they all know what I’m here to do. Cocksucking business just comes flowing like water to young desperate addicts. My dad could probably come up with a better metaphor than water. But fuck that guy. And fuck his stupid metaphors. I’ll never use an elaborate metaphor again, just out of spite.

 

I’m drawn out of my wild, directionless thoughts by the feeling of being shoved against a wall. “No,” I manage harshly. “I’ll suck your dick, man, but don’t touch me.” The john laughs warningly and reaches for my groin. “Fuck off,” I bark. “Deal’s off man.” I shove away from the man, trying to walk away. Oh god I’m so jittery.

 

I lose my footing and almost go down when the man grabs my shoulder and slaps me across the face, growling obscenities. I don’t know how to get out of this situation. My mind isn’t working, I’m on really strong stuff and I’m not sure how to think around it. I know I have to extract myself. But how…? The man punches me directly in the face -- that’s going to give me a nasty bruise -- then tries to shove me to the ground. I yelp and wrench myself away from the guy. I finally run.

 

I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know when to stop. At some point I don’t entirely remember why I’m running. But still I run, because I’m scared. Of nothing, of everything, of the vague threat I’m running from and of so many more threats I can’t completely see. I run. Until I reach a parking lot. My heart is too fast. I can stay in this parking lot. Maybe the parking lot can hide me. How nice.

 

I slump against a wall on the side of the lot. I sit by that wall for a long time. I sit against the wall and panic to myself. The world is going to end, the deep state is after me, I’m probably already contaminated with a horrific experimental anthrax contemporary. It’s like a hobby. A pastime. Panicking, wallowing in the drug-induced — or is it drug-enhanced? — paranoia. 

 

“Hey, aren't you the tweaker kid? You still give head?”

 

I look up. I don’t really recognize the man, but presumably I’ve sucked his dick before. “Yes. You want head?” I have to kind of spit the words out sharply and deliberately. 

 

The guy grins and reaches for his zipper. I roll forward onto my knees and shift forward, lubricating my lips with my tongue as best I can and reaching for my paycheck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to y'all who actually read this, I did not anticipate people bothering to go past the first chapter so bless up
> 
> Here we go

I wake up at noon the next day, according to the hotel alarm clock, and I get out of bed a couple minutes after my eyes open. I ordinarily lie there for at least an hour on my phone if I'm not forced to get up, so I congratulate myself on my responsible behavior as I get dressed and walk out of the bedroom.

 

Since Clyde and Token aren't already destroying my door or short-circuiting my phone, I assume neither of them are awake yet, which is frankly fine by me. I do not turn up my nose at quiet time. I do, however, have a problem with hungry time. I pull up Yelp on my phone and look for breakfast places nearby.

 

There are like 7 spots within 2 blocks of the hotel, so I decide to just walk and go into the first one I come across. I turn around and reenter the bedroom to find shoes and grab my wallet.

 

Walking toward the door to the parking lot, I contemplate whether I want to drive somewhere farther away instead of leaving my breakfast to chance by limiting myself only to walking distance. I went to the Snooze in east Denver one time in 9th grade when I was with my family on a trip to visit my great aunt. That shit was insanely good. The french toast thing I'd had that time had been closer to ambrosia than breakfast food. That makes up my mind, and I change direction to go to my car.

 

Before I reach it, I notice a small figure propped against a lamppost in the center of the lot. I don't pay any attention initially, because there are about a million and a half transients hereabouts, but as I pass the slumped body I realize it's alarmingly motionless. For a minute I debate with myself whether I should try to wake them up or just move on, but decide I'm not _that_ shitty a person.

 

I redirect myself toward the person and call out as I approach. As I get closer, I realize it's a guy, a kid, probably my age, and his eyes are closed. He's wearing a thin jacket with a bunch of tears and rips in it, and he's got wild blonde hair. Really wild blonde hair.

 

 _Familiar_ wild blonde hair.

 

My stomach drops to my fucking ankles.

 

I run the last couple steps and drop to a crouch next to him. It's definitely Tweek. He's frighteningly thin and kind of dirty, but I would know him anywhere.

 

"Tweek!" I reach forward and shake him gently. He doesn't respond. Oh my god. Is he dead? Please don't let him be fucking dead. I shake him harder.

 

His eyes fly open and he lurches forward, gasping loudly. It's straight out of a bad movie. "Tweek?"

 

His eyes are bloodshot and kind of wild. He looks up at me and doesn't seem to recognize me at all. My heart breaks a little at how bedraggled and haggard he looks, and I realize he's been living on the streets, probably cold and hungry and desperate. He opens his mouth and talks in a raspy, brittle voice that jumps and breaks sporadically. 

 

"What do you want, man? I'm not fucking working right now."

 

What? I'm at a loss for a response. Suddenly I see his eyes focus a little as he seems to realize who I am.

 

"...Craig? Is that you?"

 

Thank god. I feel a tiny spot of relief ease a tiny fraction of the horror I'm currently feeling.

 

"Yeah, it's me. What the fuck, Tweek? Have you been living on the fucking streets? Why the fuck didn't you call me? Why the FUCK are you passed out in a parking lot? What have you been doing for the past 2 months?! You fucking--"  I stop midsentence. I'm so freaked out, and appalled, and flustered. "What the hell happened to you?"

 

Tweek looks stunned and almost dazed. He twitches violently. "I... I don't... Are you the real Craig?" He looks so helpless and messed up. I feel my heart break a little further.

 

"Come on, Tweek. I'm taking you back to my room." I pull him up by the arm and start to lead him back toward the hotel door.

 

 

\--

 

 

I'm so confused. Craig Tucker? Did Craig really just appear out of the fucking blue to save me?

 

I don't know if this is a dream, or a hallucination brought on by that weird batch of meth, or what. What are the odds that this is real? How could he have found me? Where is he taking me now? The more I think about it -- as much as I can, in fractured, dizzying pieces -- the more I think this is probably some kind of trick. What if this is just a cruel dream? Or what if this is some john who just wants to fuck my throat but the drugs are making me think it's Craig? Or, oh god, what if this is that guy from earlier, trying to trick me into going with him to someplace where no one can hear me scream?

 

By the time I decide that the chances of this really being Craig are too low and I need to run away, I'm in a hotel room.

 

Oh god, please no. I feel sick as I look for a way out. I hear the man talking to me in garbled, muffled gibberish. I don't know what he's saying but I know he's right next to me and I have to get away. I try to step away but my legs aren't cooperating with my addled nervous system.

 

I feel a hand grip my wrist firmly and I shriek in abject terror. I can't get away, he's got me. He's going to have his way with me and then probably kill me and leave my body in a gutter. Or maybe he'll sell me into a trafficking ring and I'll never escape this hazy hell of drugs and fear. I start crying. I can hear the man's voice getting louder and more urgent and I try to fight him, try to get away, try to run or hide or something, anything to escape the nightmarish future I know awaits me.

 

Suddenly I can understand the man again. "Tweek! Tweek! Take it easy, man, what's the matter? What's wrong?! It's just me, it's Craig. What's the matter with you? Please calm down, Tweek, I promise you're ok. Tweek, please!" No! It's a horrible, evil, cruel trick. I scream back at him, "No! Stop! Let me go! Don't try to trick me. I know who you are. I said no already! _I said no!_ "

 

I turn to face him, but I'm suddenly looking into the face of Craig. The real Craig. With his brown eyes that right now look scared and hurt and heartbroken, and his blue hat that he's worn for as long as I can remember, and his face that I would recognize from a mile away. Is he really Craig? Is he really here?

 

"Craig?"

 

Craig's face twists a little, and he's crying. "Tweek... what's happened to you?" He sounds absolutely destroyed. This can't be a trick. My eyes blur with fresh tears.

 

I collapse forward onto his chest, only half on purpose, sobbing, and as the smell of his blue sweatshirt kills any remaining doubt that he's really here, I lose myself again to unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tweek doesn't deserve this what the fuck? What monster wrote this


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuuuck I updated? Wild

Tweek shakes against me, his whole body convulsing as he sobs. He’s clutching the front of my sweatshirt so tightly his knuckles are white. I can feel tears falling down my cheeks too, and I just hold him.

 

Most of his weight is on me and I realize he’s exhausted. Okay, I know how to address that. I move him towards my bed, practically carrying him, and I lay him down on the sheets, dimly grateful that I didn’t make my bed this morning.

 

As he feels the bed beneath him, Tweek unexpectedly jerks and lets out a terrified cry. No, fuck, he’s got to calm down so I can figure out what the fuck is going on. “Tweek, hey, it’s still Craig. I just thought you could use a nap? Is that okay?” I look at his face and his eyes are _huge_ with panic. Damn it, what happened?

 

“I promise you’re safe, Tweek. Let me help you, please?” He settles down a little. I try to step back so I can pull up the duvet, maybe get him some water or something, but he’s clinging to me tight, and when he feels me start to pull back he hiccups frantically and tugs me back toward him. Okay. I guess I’m staying here.

 

I gingerly reach down and try to get the duvet over him without making him think I’m trying to leave, then awkwardly maneuver myself onto the bed next to him so that I’m on top of the duvet and he’s under it. He jolts a little bit, but then settles. His breathing has slowed down to a less alarming pace, and he relaxes. He still won’t close his eyes despite being clearly exhausted, and he’s still trembling, but he’s not freaking out anymore. I exhale heavily.

 

He hasn’t talked since he realized who I was — in fact, it seems like he’s completely in emergency shutdown mode.

 

Thank god I found him. Thank god that he somehow ended up in my parking lot, and that I decided to drive to breakfast, and that I approached him. I shove away the questions about what might have happened otherwise. I don’t want to go there. Not now, not ever. But especially not now.

 

Tweek suddenly makes a soft sound and pulls me closer to him, so I’m pretty much flush against him. I put my arm around his shoulders and hold him tightly. I wasn't about to initiate contact, just in case it freaked him out -- I mean, he used to be pretty squirmy when it came to excessive physical contact on other people's terms -- but I’ve really wanted to just keep hugging him. I guess just to prove to myself that he’s actually here and actually safe, for what is very obviously the first time in a while.

 

He buries his face against my collarbone, sighing shakily. I can feel the muscles in his body finally completely relax, and pretty soon his breathing has evened out. My throat constricts and I have to swallow so I won’t start crying again and wake him up. I shut my eyes and try to get a grip.

 

I don’t want to think about what he must have been going through over the last two months, but of course the thoughts flood my brain anyway. It seems likely that he’s probably fallen to his meth addiction, which I guess doesn’t surprise me but still makes my throat tighten up.

 

On top of that, based on his terror and the intensity of his reaction to seeing someone familiar, I don’t think he’s felt safe in a long time. I forcibly shut down that line of thinking, though, because I can’t handle it right now. It’s a lot to take in first thing in the waking day.

 

I suddenly realize Clyde and Token are eventually going to wake up and want to hang out. Shit. I grab my phone and open my text conversation with Clyde. How the hell am I supposed to go about trying to explain this to him? Fuck that, I’ll figure it out later. I haven’t even finished processing this myself. I shoot Clyde a quick text just to make sure they stay off my ass for a while.

 

 

**1:21 PM**

 

 **Craig Tucker:** _I can’t do anything today. Something weird happened I’ll explain it to you later, I’m too tired. Don’t come here just leave me alone for a while ok? Sorry_

 

 

I’m surprised to see Clyde’s read receipt pop up. I would have thought they’d both be asleep at least till 2. I groan quietly. Now he’s going to be all concerned and I’m probably going to have to beg him to fuck off.

 

 

**1:22 PM**

 

 **Clyde Donovan:** _dude what the fuck?? what happened are u ok_

 

 **Clyde Donovan:** _that was the least reassuring text u could have sent dude shit_

 

 

As my finger is hovering over the keyboard as I try to decide what to reply, he calls me. Ugh. I toy with the idea of just declining the call, but I know he’ll just get more persistent. I hit accept with an eye roll (for my own benefit because obviously no one can see me).

 

“Clyde, I’m fine, I just —“

 

“Craig, what's going on? Where are you? Is there something wrong at home? You can’t just drop that on me, dude.”

 

“I just need to deal with this, ok? I'm still in my room, I'm ok, it's just... It’s not something at home, it's hard to go into. Look, I can’t do this with you right now, please just. Let me figure this out.”

 

Clyde is silent for a second. “Your voice is all weird. The last time your voice sounded like that was when Tricia was in the ICU."

 

My... voice? That's new. I make a mental note to ask him about that when I'm not completely overwhelmed.

 

I hear Clyde sigh. "Ok, I’ll fuck off, Craig, but we’re going to be freaked out over here until you tell us what’s going on.”

 

I shut my eyes and take a breath. “Thanks. I’ll fill you in later, I’m just. It’s a lot and if I start telling you then you’ll freak and need to know more and I can’t do that right now.”

 

I can practically feel Clyde’s frustration and worry radiating through the phone, so when he tells me to call when I can and hangs up without pushing it I feel a little rush of gratitude. We don’t deal in mushy stuff very often, thank god, but when shit hits the fan, our little squad always surprises me with how supportive we all are of each other. It’s good to know there are people who have your back.

 

Tweek clearly hasn’t had that luxury since he left South Park. I turn my head to look at him. He looks awful. I mean, he's never really been the pinnacle of stability and health, but he never approached this. He looks so sickly and clearly unwell, with dark purple eye sockets and gaunt, white cheeks and near-skeletal wrists and hands that are still hanging onto my shirt.

 

He’s safe now, though. He isn’t alone anymore. After this, I’m sure as hell never going to let him be all alone again.

 

—

 

I return to consciousness really suddenly, all at once.

 

I’m completely disoriented. My head hurts and my muscles are achy, but that’s the meth comedown, hardly notable. I’m lying down, and I’m weirdly warm in a way I haven’t been in a while. I’m covered by a fluffy comforter, I realize, and I’m lying on a bed. There’s a warm solid body pressed against me. Panic and dread shoot through my nervous system and I keep my eyes squeezed shut as I feel myself start to shake.

 

I knew it. Craig wasn’t real. Of course he wasn’t. It was that guy from the alley, or someone like him, and he’d tricked me and brought me up to a hotel room to take what I wouldn’t give him. I don’t physically feel like he’s done anything yet, though, so he must be waiting for me to wake up so I’ll be conscious and aware of everything. Fucking sadist. My shaking increases and I wonder if he’ll at least give me something so I don’t have to be sober for it.

 

“Tweek? Jesus, Tweek, hey, relax. Are you awake?” I’m shocked by the voice. It sounds nothing like the guy I’m imagining.

 

In fact, it sounds very much like Craig, although it sounds weird. Less flat than his voice is supposed to be, more tension in it. Plus, why the fuck would he be here? It can’t be him… can it? Ughh, this is not helping my headache. Jesus, just _look_ , Tweek. I open my eyes slowly and look up.

 

There, propped up on his elbow, looking at me with familiar brown eyes, is fucking _Craig._

 

Irrationally, my very first reaction is almost annoyance — is Craig here or is he fucking not? Stop playing games! — but it’s quickly completely overcome with unadulterated joy as I process the fact that Craig is real and here in front of me, strong enough to surpass the post-high depression that was starting to set in.

 

It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen a face I trust that I almost start crying again, but I’m out of tears, which I’m glad for because I’m fucking tired of crying. I drag myself into an upright sitting position, and Craig quickly follows suit. He looks worried, and I realize I still haven’t said anything.

 

I smile, my first genuine smile in two months. The only thing I can think to say is the thought on repeat in my head. “Oh my god, Craig. You’re actually real.” My jaw hurts (normal for me during a comedown), and my voice is raspy and gross, probably from the dehydration. (Or it’s just morning roughness. Or possibly meth hangover effects. Or the plentiful cocksocking I’ve been doing recently. Come to think of it, it’s probably a combination all of those things. I haven’t chosen the most throat-friendly lifestyle.)

 

I can see Craig’s shoulders relax a little when I speak, although his brow is still furrowed in concern. That almost makes me choke up again, because it means he fucking _cares_. No one’s cared about my wellbeing for months, and they’ve been the months of my life when I most needed somebody to.

 

I move forward and pull him into a hug. “I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am to see you, man.”

 

He seems surprised, but wraps his arms around my shoulders and squeezes back. His surprise amuses me a little. I’d clung to him pretty much nonstop before I fell asleep, but I was clearly not in my right mind, so of course he assumed that once I was stable I would have the same issues about personal space that I did when I saw him last. Ha. You get over your personal space issues pretty quickly in my line of work.

 

“Jesus, Tweek. I’m so glad you’re alive.” He sounds less shaky than he did when I woke up, but I can hear in his voice how worried and upset he is.

 

I tighten my hold on him briefly, letting out a muffled _ngh_ as I remember guiltily that on the day I’d left I had promised to call him when I got to Denver, but I’d destroyed my phone within hours of arriving in a meth-induced paranoid delusion. Something about alien spies. I sigh and pull out of the hug, resting my elbows on my knees and pushing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

 

God, my head hurts. And my mouth feels like I’ve been eating cotton. Plus, being on a real bed is really accentuating which parts of my body have been sorely missing the cushiony support, so my back and shoulders and neck feel like they’re throwing temper tantrums.

 

Craig leverages himself out of the bed. “Do you want some water? Food?”

 

Jesus H. Christ, he’s right, normal necessities are immediately accessible right now. I have been drinking from water fountains and bathroom sinks, and spending about $7.50 a week on barely enough nutrition to keep me alive (meth really pushes your appetite to the bottom of the priority list. I’m lucky I realized that I needed to eat at all). This is a massive step up. “Yeah, actually, I need water. My throat is not, um, as well-lubricated as it could be.” Oh my god, seriously? Could you possibly choose a worse way to phrase that? I make a loud, distressed AGH sound and my face twitches hard. I know I’m going to have to have that conversation with him soon, about what exactly I’ve been doing for the past months, but I’d rather not start it off right the fuck now with unintentional hints and innuendos.

 

Craig returns to the bed with a glass of water, which I gulp down gratefully. Craig arranges himself on the bed so that he’s facing me, sitting cross-legged, not too close but not too far away.

 

When I finish the water, I set the glass on the bedside table and reluctantly turn to face him. I’m moderately confident that he’s about to initiate the discussion about my activities since leaving South Park, and I may be resigned to its necessity but that doesn’t mean I’m excited to share. I’m not exactly proud of the most recent edition of my history. I wait for Craig to speak first.

 

“Tweek.” His voice is quiet and tinged with distress. Pretty, familiar brown eyes are focused on my face, and looking into them I feel myself relax a little bit. If anyone is going to validate my shame and disgust with myself, it’s not going to be Craig.

 

He takes a breath and shuts his eyes for a second before continuing in an almost pleading tone. “Please tell me it’s not as bad as it looks, dude.”

 

I shift my gaze to the sheets underneath my legs and sigh, quirking the corners of my mouth up slightly.

 

“Honestly, man? It’s probably worse.”


End file.
